Biltmore Oswald | Page 3

blockhead,'" shouted the recruit with equal
heat.
"Oh, God!" cried the doctor despairingly.
"'Oh, God!'" repeated the recruit in a mournful voice.
This little drama of cross purposes might have continued indefinitely
had not the hospital apprentice begun to punch the guy in the ribs,
shouting as he did so:
"Wait a minute, can't you?"
At which the recruit, a great hulk of a fellow, delivered the hospital
apprentice a resounding blow in the stomach and turned indignantly to
the doctor.
"That man's interfering," he said in an injured voice. "Now that ain't
fair, is it, doc?"
"You pass," said the doctor briefly, producing his handkerchief and
mopping his brow.
"Well, what are you standing around for?" he said a moment later,
spying me in my corner.

"Oh, doctor," I cried, delighted, "I thought you had forgotten me."
"No," said the doctor, "I'll never forget you. You pass. Take your
papers and clear out."
I can now feel with a certain degree of security that I am in the Navy.
Feb. 26th. I broke the news to mother to-day and she took it like a little
gentleman, only crying on twelve different occasions. I had estimated it
much higher than that.
After dinner she read me a list of the things I was to take with me to
camp, among which were several sorts of life preservers, an electric
bed warmer and a pair of dancing pumps.
"Why not include spurs?" I asked, referring to the pumps. "I'd look very
crisp in spurs, and they would help me in climbing the rigging."
"But some officer might ask you to a dance," protested mother.
"Mother," I replied firmly, "I have decided to decline all social
engagements during my first few weeks in camp. You can send the
pumps when I write for them."
A card came to-day ordering me to report on March 1st. Consequently I
am not quite myself.
Feb. 27th. Mother hurried into my room this morning and started to
pack my trunk. She had gotten five sweaters, three helmets and two
dozen pairs of socks into it before I could stop her. When I explained to
her that I wasn't going to take a trunk she almost broke down.
"But at least," she said, brightening up, "I can go along with you and
see that you are nice and comfortable in your room."
"You seem to think that I am going to some swell boarding school,
mother," I replied from the bed. "You see, we don't have rooms to
ourselves. I understand that we sleep in bays."

"Don't jest," cried mother. "It's too horrible!"
Then I explained to her that a bay was a compartment of a barracks in
which eight human beings and one petty officer, not quite so human,
were supposed to dwell in intimacy and, as far as possible, concord.
This distressed poor mother dreadfully. "But what are you going to
take?" she cried.
"I'm going to take a nap," said I, turning over on my pillow. "It will be
the last one in a bed for a long, long time."
At this mother stuffed a pair of socks in her mouth and left the room
hastily.
Polly came in to-night and I kissed her on and off throughout the
evening on the strength of my departure. This infuriated father, but
mother thought it was very pretty. However, before going to bed he
gave me a handsome wrist watch, and grandfather, pointing to his game
leg, said:
"Remember the Mexican War, my boy. I fought and bled honorably in
that war, by gad, sir!"
I know for a fact that the dear old gentleman has never been further
west than the Mississippi River.
Feb. 28th (on the train). I have just gone through my suit-case and
taken out some of mother's last little gifts such as toilet water, a padded
coat hanger, one hot water bottle, some cough syrup, two pairs of
ear-bobs, a paper vest and a blue pokerdotted silk muffler. She put
them in when I wasn't looking. I have hidden them under the seat. May
the Lord forgive me for a faithless son.
The departure was moist, but I managed to swim through. I am too
excited to read the paper and too rattle-brained to think except in
terrified snatches. I wonder if I look different. People seem to be
regarding me sympathetically. I recognize two faces on this train. One

belongs to Tony, the iceman on our block; the other belongs to one
named Tim, a barkeep, if I recall rightly, in a hotel I have frequently
graced with my presence. I hope their past friendship was not due to
professional reasons. It would be nice to talk over old times with them
in camp, for I have frequently met the one in the